Living the Code
by thejedisentinel
Summary: A bittersweet one-shot that could apply to any Jedi couple living in the time before the Order started discouraging 'attachments'.


_Emotion, yet peace._

Had **all** of his favourite breakfast cereal _vanished_ overnight? Yesterday, there had been a half-empty box on the table, and two unopened ones in store. This morning, there was no trace that anything along the lines of _Ma Tuula's Sugar Berry Special_ had ever resided in their kitchen.

In their place stood a good three months' supply of bran, toasted wholegrain, and muesli. The _non-sticky_ kind. The sort that only starving nerfs and health-food _addicts_ would contemplate with _anything_ apart from the deepest revulsion, he thought. Bread, then...? Problem - she had taken it upon herself to threaten the Enclave droids just last week. A little assiduous brandishing of an arc wrench accompanied by some vague references to scrap metal had resulted in the damn things resolutely _refusing_ to bring any sort of bakery apart from the darkest wholegrain from the kitchens. Bread, he thought ruefully, would no longer be fluffy and white. She had laughed at his horrified expression and informed him that dark bread would be good for his bowels, not like that "horrible white stuff" he loved.

He turned his attention to the snack bin. It, too, was empty save for a little note at the bottom:

"I thought you might like to know what's become of that sugar overdose you call your cereal. And the snacks which used to live here. They're all gone now. Aren't you always telling me that doing something nice for small helpless things is good? Well, I've been _very _good. The avians in the lake think so, at any rate. Toodles!"

It took an hour's meditation before he was able to tackle a bowl of that **horrid **bantha fodder which masqueraded as cereal.

_Ignorance, yet knowledge._

Days stretched into weeks, and weeks into months. The wood shavings she had foisted upon his unsuspecting system were just as abundant as ever. He chewed dilligently, contemplating the strange twist his life had taken. If he was to be honest with himself, the brown grits had stopped tasting like rycrit kibble, even going as far as to develop some semblance of a subtly nutty flavour. He had even ventured to nibble at a slice of that horrid brown bakery, and found it acceptable.

_Worrying_, really. **This** is how it all started, right? _Small_ steps. One little thing after another. You start liking the things you didn't, developing new tastes... and then new _habits_... and before you knew it - _poof_!

You were a different person from what you were before.

Only thing was, he _hadn't _quite expected his taste-buds to be the _first_ thing she'd change. His habit of wearing crumpled clothes, for instance. All the gossip he'd heard seemed to involve irate women, a hot iron, and hours of mindless tedium bent over a stupid board, pressing creases out of clothes. And to _what_ end? So that they could be worn, and comprehensively **re**-creased. He shook his head, and reached for a slice of bread. What else would she change next? he wondered.

He had nibbled off the crust when it hit him.

She _wouldn't_ stop at changing the way he ate or dressed, would she? **No**. If she was capable of performing some dastardly mind-trick on his _tastebuds_, she was probably capable of _anything_. He might wake up one day and find himself actually _running a brush through his hair_ instead of the old four-fingers-and-some-water trick, and then it would be too late.

Maybe, he thought, **this** was the Real Reason why Jedi weren't actively encouraged to have relationships. Girlfriends _were_ the Dark Side. They were seemingly-harmless creatures who smiled and insinuated themselves oh-so-cleverly into one's good graces, slipping deftly past mental defenses, ingratiating themselves completely, familiarising themselves with the inner workings of a man's mind until one day, a man woke up and found that he had started eating _kibble_ for breakfast, and that he **liked** it. By which time, of course, it would be_ far too late_. The mental machinery had been irretrievably tampered with.

As he hurried out of their quarters to keep his rendezvous with his Master, he realised the true scale of his ignorance: not only was he lost as to what aspects of his life she might change _next_, he had **no** way of telling _how_ she would accomplish that.

This knowledge taunted him for the rest of the day.

_Passion, yet serenity._

Like a blue-spotted preaky, time had flown past. Knighthood had happened, for both of them - and marriage shortly thereafter. She'd changed more about him since then than he cared to admit: gone were the days of frayed sleeves and creased tunics. Brown bread and rough cereal had long since ceased to bother him: he had new challenges to meet, worthy to test the mettle of any Knight.

Remembering their anniversary, for example.

Their _first_ anniversary had caught him unawares, and although she hadn't groused or made a scene, he _knew_ that she had been disappointed. He didn't have to use the Force to know _how much_. What made it worse was how awfully **Jedi **she'd been about it: calm, peaceful, _serene_ - he found himself wishing she'd flare up and perhaps go on strike or something - **any** histrionic would have made the guilt so much easier to bear. But she _hadn't_, and soon he found himself installing an organiser program from the Archive's collection to his datapad, and making careful notes.

He'd been _much_ better prepared on their second anniversary: a few late nights in the Archives the week before, some sacrificed lunch hours and a bit of hide-and-seek on the day itself enabled him to sneak back home and start setting up. The look on her face when she came back from conducting classes in the salle that evening and found dinner on the table was nothing short of priceless - and the _very_ passionate manner in which she'd chosen to express her appreciation afterwards was now _permanently_ etched into his mind.

A little voice whispered in his head that he'd been _thoroughly_ house-trained without his even knowing it. He brushed it aside as a frivolous idea unworthy of a _Jedi_, and turned his attention to the arrangement of blooms in the bouquet he was putting together. She would like it, he was certain.

_Chaos, yet harmony._

Things were moving quickly, now. One of the Order's best and brightest had fallen to the Dark Side in his quest for arcane knowledge, and many had chosen to throw their lot in with him. It would only be a matter of time before civil war broke out. When it did, the Order would doubtless suffer heavy losses. Already Jedi had been called to the front, and many had become one with the Force. Soon, he knew, the Council would call upon those it held in reserve, as it were - Jedi whose lives revolved around the day-to-day running of the Enclave and its administration. Jedi like him. _Jedi like her_.

Turning, he looked across the main hallway of the Archives at a gaggle of older Padawans herding a group of raucous younglings, who were being given their first tour of the Archives. Their son led the group - a Padawan: soon to be Knighted, soon to be called to the front. Together, their family had accepted the possibility of loss, as all Jedi _must_. Letting go never became easier, he mused. All one could do was to accustom oneself to it. When his first Padawan was sent on a solo mission following her Knighting, he found himself learning what the price of Masterhood was: _a little part of you would always follow your Padawan in spirit_. It was what Masters and Padawans shared - a **bond** in the Force. Forget what the old geezers with hair coming out of their ears liked to yammer on about - attachment was _impossible_ to avoid, and in fact the very thing that made for a _workable_ Master-Padawan relationship.

**Any** civilised relationship, come to think of it.

When the call came, it was for her. They ate their last family meal together as they always had: laughter, animated discussions, the latest gossip.

In the morning, she took him aside for one final kiss, and told him that whatever chaos she faced could never drown out the harmony that reverberated in her heart from their home.

And then she was gone.

_Death, yet the Force._

When **it** happened, he'd been in their room, deep in meditation. The pain - it was like _nothing_ he'd experienced before, _worse_ than when he'd felt the death of either of his former Padawans, _worse_ than when his own Master had suddenly been cut down, _worse_ than when he'd felt the deaths of his closest friends on battlefields, parsecs away. It was white-hot, _blindingly_ acute, and passed as suddenly as it had come.

He knew in that instant that he would not see her again, until he should himself become one with the Force.

The transport was flying low now, over the burnt-out stumps of trees. He could hear the din of battle - the cries of the wounded on both sides, the dull tremor as the ground shook from the concussive force of exploding ordnance, the clash of lightsabers. In a minute, he found himself running through what must once have been a beautiful forest; only now the stench of smoke and blood hung thick in the air, and the blood-and-oil-soaked soil squelched sickeningly beneath his boots. His target was just up ahead, that bunker by the copse of defoliated trees. Five meters away from him stood a dark figure. With a hiss, a red blade unsheathed itself, and the figure charged.

With the grace born of years of discipline, he brought his own silver blade up to meet it. Block, counterstrike, parry, feint, block, thrust.

The Force was flowing through and around him, now - guiding each move, each thrust, each parry. More than ever before, he immersed himself in it, opening himself to its leading.

They were evenly matched, he and his dark foe. But his foe was younger, and he had grown old. As he fended off another vigorous attack, the Force spoke to him - in _her_ voice.

He smiled - so, _this_ was how it must end? As the dark Jedi let out a roar of rage and charged towards him, he held his ground, lightsaber in a neutral position. The momentary confusion this caused his foe was all the time he needed. Giving himself entirely to the Force, he sprang forward and bridged the distance between them in a single leap, bringing his blade up to pierce the unguarded chest of his foe.

It was over in the blink of an eye. He felt the red blade burn through him, heard the death-scream of his foe, and felt himself falling, falling. And then she was helping him to his feet, young and beautiful and hale and whole, as she had been the day he'd first set eyes on her. He took her in his arms, ignoring the catcalls of those around, and held her tight.

At last, they were _truly_ one - and he could see no more shadow of parting from her.


End file.
